


A New Perspective

by cecilkirk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Biting, Choking, Crying, Degradation, M/M, Pain Kink, Scratching, Slapping, Smut, Wall Sex, brallon, sorry mom sorry god, this is some truly gross shit, top!dal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 08:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6366718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilkirk/pseuds/cecilkirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dallon figures out Brendon has a pain kink (and exploits the fuck out of it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blobecks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobecks/gifts).



“Shit!”

Dallon hears Brendon cry out from the kitchen. He drops his book and runs across the house to find Brendon clutching his hand and staring at a broken mug on the floor, surrounded by a puddle of coffee.

“You okay?” Dallon asks, prying Brendon’s hand from the other and looking it over. No cuts, no blood--Brendon had just dropped the mug.

“Yeah,” Brendon says in a tight, thin voice. “Just burned myself.”

Dallon rubs his fingers over Brendon’s now-red index and middle finger. “Careful next time,” he says, kissing his fingers.

Brendon looks up at him with wide eyes and a pink flush across his cheeks. Smirking, Dallon puts the fingers in his mouth, plunging them past his lips up to the knuckle and pushing his tongue between them, forcing them apart. He tightens his hand around Brendon’s wrist, scraping his thumb nail along the blue veins on the soft skin of the inside of his wrist. Dallon watches as Brendon’s pillow-lined face grows redder, his messy bed hair clinging to his face with sweat.

After a few moments, Dallon pulls Brendon’s fingers out of his mouth with a crisp, clean pop. “All better?” he asks, smirk finding its way on his lips again.

Brendon just stares at his hand, then looks up at Dallon, silent and wide-eyed.

“What, not gonna speak to me now?” Dallon grins, reaching over to pinch Brendon’s ribs--something that always made him swat Dallon’s hands away and squeal. And he did, but he also took a step forward, missing the ceramic shards but not the boiling coffee. He hisses, but he doesn’t remove his foot.

Out of a protective instinct Dallon pulls Brendon’s shoulders, yanking him off the coffee. He goes to sit Brendon down to better examine the sole of his foot, but Brendon clings to his waist, fisting his tee shirt and pressing his body flush against Dallon’s. Dallon blinks in confusion, but when he feels Brendon’s cock twitch against his thigh and his boxers grow warm, his face begins to burn.

Neither say anything. Dallon can hear Brendon’s breathing begin to slow and even out, his fingers loosen around his shirt.

Dallon doesn’t know what to say.


	2. Chapter 2

On the living room couch, Brendon and Dallon watch a movie. Brendon leans into him, head against his shoulder. Dallon slips his hand under Brendon’s shirt, rubbing and lightly scratching his back, leaning in to press a kiss to his hair but stopping when Brendon interrupts him.

“Harder,” Brendon says, and Dallon does, pressing his nails down further into Brendon’s skin as he trails them across his spine and ribs.

Dallon hears Brendon’s breathing speed up.

“Harder,” Brendon says again, voice beginning to fall apart. Dallon does as Brendon asks, applying more pressure, enough for him to hear the jarring sound of keratin on flesh. Brendon ducks his head down and arches his back into Dallon’s touch. Dallon watches as Brendon laces his fingers together as if in prayer, fingertips digging into knuckles.

He whispers something Dallon can’t hear.

“What?”

“H-harder,” Brendon whines, voice wavering in his throat. Dallon watches Brendon pry his hands apart and press one against his thickening lap.

Dallon blinks.

“...Are you sure?” he asks slowly. “I--”

“Yes,” Brendon chokes out, voice edgy with frustration. It sounds like a demand, and it gets under Dallon’s skin. No one told him what to do. Especially Brendon.

Dallon lets anger push his hand along, digging into Brendon’s skin as hard as he can. He can feel Brendon’s skin get warm with irritation, blood coming to the surface from the pain he’s causing. Brendon chokes on his breath, hand around his own thigh, head to his chest. Dallon watches as Brendon brings his other hand up to his hair, grabbing a fistful impatiently.

Dallon licked his lips as he watched Brendon writhe into him. But his intentions change abruptly when he feels new warmth meet his fingers. He pulls his hand away from Brendon’s back in muted horror. Brendon lets out a choked cry of frustration.

“Shit,” Dallon says. “I’m--I’m sorry, Bren, I think I scratched too hard. I think--” He pulls up Brendon’s shirt and, sure enough, he’s right:

“I drew blood, I’m sor--”

At the affirmation of what he was feeling, Brendon comes in his pants. Dallon watches as he arches his back, throws his chin up, drops his hands, and gasps. Brendon shuts his eyes and accidentally kicks the coffee table much too hard, sending it two feet across the room, its legs scraping the wood floor.

Dallon blinks.

 _Holy shit_ , he thinks.


	3. Chapter 3

Neck kissing was one of Brendon’s weaknesses. Dallon had known this for as long as they had been together. It was predictable; hell, he was prone to weak knees when Brendon did it to him. But Brendon was different--he could stand whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted, and neck kissing was easy for him to tolerate because it’d become old, routine, habitual. He didn’t fall apart in Dallon’s hands as neatly anymore, and Dallon missed it. He wanted to tear Brendon apart from the inside out, so completely divisive that only Dallon could put him back together.

With no advice on how to do this from Brendon, Dallon relied on his recent memories and hoped they would do him good.

Dallon wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist, pulling Brendon’s hips down against his own. No response. Dallon mutters nothing against Brendon’s throat, all noise and vibrations to electrify his skin, lips ghosting on skin. No response. Frustration building within him, Dallon opens his mouth and lets his teeth scrape skin. He hears Brendon suck in a breath, feels him grab Dallon’s shoulders.

Dallon smirks. This was definitely a promising response.

He nips at Brendon’s skin again, catching it between his teeth briefly, over and over and over. Repetition in the same spot was wearing down Brendon, making him weak where Dallon attacked him with teeth and tongue and whispers. Dallon could see Brendon’s chest heaving as he struggled to breathe evenly.

“What,” Dallon mutters in a low, mocking tone, remembering what Brendon had begged the other night, “want me to bite harder?”

Against his lips, Dallon can feel Brendon’s neck move as he swallows. On his shoulders, he can feel Brendon’s fingers begin to shake, gripping tighter in the attempt to still them.

“Yes,” Brendon whispers, lowering his chin so he can look Dallon in the eyes.

Dallon cocks his head a few degrees. Memories are still fresh in his mind, and the smirk returns.

He brings one hand up from Brendon’s hip and into his hair, smoothing it away from his face with his fingers.

“You’re so pretty,” he says evenly, thumbing Brendon’s cheekbone. “But you’re pretty gross, too, aren’t you?” He upends his question, ensuring that Brendon knows to answer it, to answer him.

“Yes,” Brendon whispers, darting out his tongue to lick his lips. He keeps his lips apart, wide enough to help him suck down quick, shallow, excited breaths.

Dallon cocks his head further, staring at Brendon’s neck, where it meets his shoulder. “You like it when I hurt you,” he says, more a statement than a question.

“Yes,” Brendon whines, voice pitched uncomfortably high as he grinds down on Dallon’s lap.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” Dallon asks through a growl, fingers combing through Brendon’s hair.

Brendon’s eyes shine with desire and impatience. He looks like he might cry. “Yes,” he whines, louder, voice cracking.

Dallon licks his teeth beneath his smirk.

“All right.”

He fists Brendon’s hair and yanks his head back, exposing Brendon’s neck. Brendon chokes on his excitement, freeing his vocal cords, allowing him to moan loudly and solidly as Dallon sinks his teeth into his throat. Brendon arches his back into Dallon’s touch, his teeth, craning his neck to pull his head away from Dallon’s grip to increase pain. Dallon squeezes the hand around Brendon’s hip and bucks up into him, digging nails into bone.

“You’re fucking disgusting, Urie,” Dallon spits, lips ghosting on Brendon’s neck.

Brendon lets out a cry, followed by a gasped affirmation: _“Yes.”_

A thought crosses Dallon’s mind--a tease, just to torture Brendon, just to send him over the fucking edge. He doesn’t hesitate to act on it.

Dallon pulls his lips away and his head back, looking into Brendon’s eyes. Tears of frustration are welling, and he’s clenching his jaw.

“So pretty,” Dallon coos, bringing his hand to Brendon’s cheek and thumbing his lips, pulling them apart and flipping the lower one against his chin. “Like a doll, with that porcelain skin and those marble eyes. But do you know what else?”

Brendon swallows, finding himself unable to speak. Dallon released Brendon’s thick, plump lower lip, letting it spring back against his teeth. He lets his hand trail down Brendon’s face and slowly, slowly up to his throat, hearing Brendon whine in anticipation. He knows what Dallon is going to do before he even does it.

Dallon wraps his hand around Brendon’s neck, fingers loose on his vertebrae, thumb sliding along the grooves of his windpipe.

He sees one tear escape down Brendon’s cheek.

He smirks.

“Dolls are pretty fuckin’ easy to break.”

Without any pressure applied to his throat--just on the implication alone--Brendon comes, grinding down on Dallon’s lap and writhing. Dallon begins to pull his hand away but Brendon grips his wrist, forcing Dallon to keep his hold as he rides out his orgasm. Dallon pinches the skin of Brendon’s hip and he gasps, eyes shooting open, dropping his head down to look at Dallon in disbelief and embarrassment. But Dallon has nothing to say to Brendon.

He knows what Brendon's weakness is now.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere in the kitchen, there’s a fly. And it’s driving Dallon crazy.

Initially he only swats at it when it lands by him, just when it’s in reach, just when it seems easy. But every missed smack creates a humming irritation in his hand. He wants to kill it now, his apathy now bubbling into anger, a thirst for violence, a desire for its demise. He chases it around the kitchen, open palm striking the walls and countertops and cabinets, frustration electric and alive under his skin.

“Dal?”

From where he kneels on the counter, he turns to see Brendon standing in the kitchen, just within the threshold.

“What are--?” Brendon starts, words tumbling through a laugh, but the syllables die on his lips as realization--and the possibility for the impending future--wash over him, the capillaries within his cheeks swollen.

Dallon watches as Brendon’s face reddens. He doesn’t lower his hand from where it hangs in the air, angled back behind him, preparing to swing. Brendon’s eyes flicker, oscillating between Dallon’s ever-familiar palm and the unforgiving rigidity of the cabinet.

Dallon hears the fly buzz past his ear. He doesn’t care that it escapes.

He slides off the counter, taking slow, even steps until he’s in front of Brendon.

“Good morning, baby,” Dallon says, wrapping a hand around Brendon’s waist--the one that hadn’t been just smacking around their kitchen. No, Dallon thought he should leave that free. Letting it hang at his side, he sees Brendon’s eyes follow its descent. Dallon smirks; Brendon was enticed.

Dallon kisses Brendon, softly, gently, fingers rolling over the waistband of his boxers but not slipping beneath. He granted Brendon saccharine, heartfelt kisses, but he could tell Brendon wasn’t returning them in full. He had something on his mind.

Dallon smirks again, anticipating Brendon’s reaction to what he’s going to say--Brendon’s wide eyes, wet lips, eager fingers, and shallow breaths. He almost can’t wait to say it.

“Do you w--?”

“Slap me,” Brendon says, voice clear and loud, foreignly unwavering.

Dallon blinks. He’s taken aback by Brendon’s confidence.

“Slap me, Dallon,” he repeats when he gets no reply. “I want you to hit me.”

Dallon raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I don’t want to--”

“Just do it,” Brendon spits. His eyes harden; he’s trying to stare Dallon down, tell him what to do. Dallon didn’t stand for that. But he also didn’t want to hurt Brendon.

He hits Brendon half-heartedly, the meeting of skin less a collision than a brush. Brendon turns his head back to face forward and looks at Dallon with disgust in his eyes.

“Like you mean it,” he says sharply.

Dallon bites his lower lip, feeling irritation creep back under his skin just by looking at Brendon’s stiff features and determined voice. He strikes Brendon harder, enough to make noise fill the space between them.

But it’s not enough for Brendon.

“Are you even fucking trying?” he asks, voice getting louder. Dallon feels his face burn, his stomach knot, and then his fingers grow leaden with annoyance. He was embarrassed that Brendon was shoving him around, but now he was going to make Brendon regret it.

But he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t hit Brendon that hard; that would be unforgivable, that would be cruel, that would be really fucking--

“Fuck!” Brendon yells, slamming an open palm on the counter beside him, making Dallon jump. His words are hot on Dallon’s face: “Can’t you fucking do anything right? Can’t you fucking do what I ask? Or is it _too hard_ for--”

Brendon’s words die on his lips.

Dallon sees him hit the floor before the pain registers in his hand, before the crack in the air and the crash of Brendon’s body colliding with the tile hit his ears.

Immediately, Dallon feels guilt wash over him.

“Fuck,” Dallon mutters, kneeling on the floor to look at Brendon. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Bren.”

He pulls Brendon up so they’re sitting across from each other. Brendon has his hand gingerly prodding his ever-reddening cheek. He looks up at Dallon with tears in his eyes, threatening to spill.

Dallon feels his stomach drop.

“Bren, baby, I didn’t meant to hurt you,” he says, reaching forward to take Brendon’s free hand. “I’m _so_ sor--”

Brendon interrupts him by pressing his lips to Dallon’s. He pitches his weight forward and rocks onto his knees, pulling Dallon up with him until both are kneeling, skin and bone digging into tile. Brendon kisses Dallon sloppily, messily, exhaustion stripping him of all precision. He takes one of Dallon’s hands and puts it on his inflames cheek, moaning at the echo of the slap. He plunges the other into his boxers. Dallon does nothing more than cup Brendon’s surprisingly hard cock before Brendon comes, whimpering and choking on his own breath.

Dallon retrieves his hands, feeling somehow full of both betrayal and pride. He wipes Brendon’s come on Brendon’s tee shirt, a reminder to him--and maybe, Dallon thinks fleetingly, to both of them--of who gave the orders between them.

Brendon looks down at his chest, plucks Dallon’s fingers from his shirt, and skillfully sucks them clean with dirtier noises and tonguing than necessary. He looks at Dallon the entire time, and Dallon feels his cheeks begin to burn as he watches Brendon’s sore, red cheek hollow.

If wiping Brendon’s come on his own shirt wasn’t a good enough reminder, Dallon could think of something that would be.


	5. Chapter 5

“C-christ, I’m gonna--”

“Not fucking yet, you’re not.”

Brendon gasps as Dallon thrusts into him, clinging to his back with all the desperation his fingers can support. He can hear the skin of his back scratch against the walls, the kind that were made sharp. Brendon had no idea why anyone would build a house with them, but he didn’t care at this moment. All he cared about were the red lines he could almost see forming on his back, maybe even hard enough to draw blood, leave bruises, and--

“Shit,” he cries out as Dallon fucks him. Agony soaked every syllable from his lips; Dallon was going far too slowly, taking his time and breaking Brendon’s heart with sexual frustration. He even arched his back to keep himself from touching Brendon’s dick between them as much as he could, just to torture him. But Dallon was squeezing his hips far harder than he needed, he was pressing their foreheads together and forcing them to breathe each other’s hot, lust-drenched breath. It was kind of gross, Brendon thinks to himself, and the irony of it makes him smirk--just for a moment, just a flash of humor on his face.

But Dallon catches it, and he doesn’t appreciate it.

He pulls out of Brendon and Brendon’s knees buckle, falling off Dallon’s hips. Dallon shoves him backward to keep him from crashing to the floor, colliding shoulder blades and wall. Brendon whines at the sensation, and he whines at the electric animosity in Dallon’s eyes.

“What’s so funny?” Dallon mutters, eyes flickering in Brendon’s as he searches for the answer.

“N-nothing,” Brendon stammers. He feels a grin ease onto his mouth as the irony increases--they were still both sharing the same few inches of air, and Dallon was about to really fuck Brendon up.

Brendon decides he doesn’t want to hide his grin.

“Answer me!” Dallon barks.

Against his better judgment, Brendon can feel himself smiling wider.

Dallon takes a step back and smacks Brendon, not hard enough to make him fall, but enough for him to lose his footing. Dallon shoves him back against the wall, his skull colliding with a thick, dense thud. He watches a flicker of intense pain cross over Brendon’s face, but the fucker goes right back to grinning.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, Urie,” Dallon growls, grabbing a fistful of Brendon’s hair. The threat of familiar, routine pain excites Brendon, sending a wave of anticipation crashing onto him. Even with his cheek sore and resisting movement, he does it again, and Dallon--

“You fucker!” Dallon shouts, ripping at the fistful of hair. Brendon’s pathetic, whiny outcry isn’t a good enough answer.

Dallon drops his hand and fastens it around Brendon’s throat--not applying pressure, but firm and unmoving. Brendon’s eyes widen, causing a few errant tears to escape and slip down his porcelain skin. The smile plummets from his lips and down to the carpeted floor of their bedroom beneath them.

Dallon uses the hand around Brendon’s throat to press him harder against the wall. He can feel Brendon’s precome thin and slick against his lower stomach.

“You’re going to fucking tell me what’s so funny,” Dallon spits through clenched teeth, forehead presses against Brendon’s hard enough for the pain of grinding bone to ensue.

Brendon slowly grabs Dallon’s wrist and tilts his chin up, allowing Dallon to have more access. A smirk creeps across his face.

“I’m disgusting,” Brendon says in a chillingly high-pitched voice, cocking his head as his smirk grows. Dallon feels his stomach drop and his face burn.

Brendon’s arrogance had sent him over the edge.

In a quick succession of events, Dallon squeezes his hand around Brendon’s throat; Brendon writhes across the wall, and, after a few moments of hands scrambling against the wall for some semblance of purchase and knees giving out, comes across Dallon’s stomach; and just at seeing Brendon fall apart so neatly and irreparably, Dallon comes shortly after.

Dallon removes his hand, watches Brendon slide helplessly against the wall, then quickly pins his shoulders back to keep him from collapsing completely.

“You _are_ disgusting,” Dallon says, the words buoyant. He’s almost awestruck at how Brendon reacted.

Brendon blinks, struggling to compose himself. He manages to put one hand on the wall behind him and pull himself up to his full height. “L-lucky you,” Brendon retorts, but his voice is trembling. His arrogance was gone; Dallon had stripped him of it completely.

For one final time, Dallon smirked. It was up to him to put Brendon back together, glue together the shards of porcelain, pop back in those marble eyes. Dallon had ruined Brendon, but he could fix him.

And, once more, he could tear him apart.

 


End file.
